While Pegasus Flies.

While Pegasus flies, we stay firmly planted onto solid land, like tree trunks, our roots deep into the soil, sentimental value, I guess. Daydreams? Of flying above the bright blue eyes of the world, not in a motorized aircraft, but with wings attached to our skin.

Like Edgar, we see crows, and we do not like them. Like the crows, we imagine we only speak of one word. Nevermore. Nevermore. Nevermore, Lenore. Nevermore. Although we don’t know what we shall nevermore, we do know we die, and we don’t know if a crow is going to visit our relatives and creak out in what I imagine to be a crow’s crow: nevermore.

What we do know is that our bodies will no loner hold breath and will no longer thrump-bump with every heart, up and down. We know that when we die, someone else will be born. And then they will die. Someone will come into the world. This will happen enough times in one family, enough in one family to create a great family tree. And in one hundred years, someone will still be visiting the grave of your great-great grandmother, and then once they finish patting the gravestone of someone they did not know, they will go home to the house that has been in the family for generations.

You will not leave. Not ever. Not when your kids go off to college, not when your wife dies, not when your children die, not when your grandchildren die, and not when they’re grandchildren die. And while Pegasus flies in grandeur, you will be in the same place as you were two hundred years ago, and nothing will have changed.